Summertime

This morning,

the sewer water smelled like butterscotch,

and I found a beetle

flattened into the concrete of koreatown.

Scooter versus scarab,

squashed skid marks

shattering emerald green.

And on the escalator leading down

to the 7th street Metro,

pigeons paint the handrails,

splattering off-white.

Flocks lost,

in the underground ecosystem of delayed train traffic

and disappearances.

But my sure step says, "not me. Not today."

And my sure step says,

"sure, you could ask me for directions."

It's true; I do

know my way around this angel-angst town,

all its ins and outs

and in-n-outs,

all the creatures hidden in crevices,

gone off track.

And when your phone map fails to find home,

wait for the bus by a grate

that pushes up a hell of hot green-gray air.

You're already there,

having a Marilyn Monroe moment

with the exquisite stink

spurting from the sidewalk's underbelly.

And the truth is,

the silver line is my favorite sweat brigade.

But when the rush-hour crowd is too, too much,

I turn the music up.

Los Angeles, I am not lonely with you, my love.

The wires cutting through the smog

wrap themselves around my skittish heart

till I am electrocuted by your current,

stargazing on the boulevard

beneath a pair of tangled sneakers,

watching all the winged dreams around me

scribble footnotes in our city's story.

I fall in love like the ocean,

like riptide and home,

never rare and always deep.

Name me venice breakwater,

constantly splitting apart but never hurting.

How could I not care about this breeze that made me?

Watch from the water as the tide pools

and everything inside get taken back by the sea.

Every new storefront is an exit wound

of shots we've been hearing,

all the golden little pearls returning to dust and sand.

- Whoa! - Oh!

What the fuck were you doing there

on the sidewalk, bruh?

We were just trying to take a photo.

You've gotta be kidding me.

Ugh!

You could have at least said sorry!

Look at them. Pitiful.

It's just so sad.

- #eatingshitlnvenice. - #venicevacay.

Hello. Welcome to loaf. My name is Veronica.

Let me remind you we're under new management

and our specialties are now toast and bottomless bellinis.

But you kids don't look old enough to drink.

So what can I get for you?

Honestly, I would just like a cheeseburger.

I'm sorry, babe. We don't have cheeseburgers.

So what can I get for you two?

I'm gonna get this one with the evoo, please.

Mm-hmm, make that two.

Well, I'll take the closest thing you got

to a cheeseburger.

Coming right up.

- Ooh! - Can you believe this?

- Snaps back. - No tip.

To the new management of loaf.

Y'all got me fucked all the way up.

How could y'all possibly think

it's okay to move hamburgers off the menu?

What?

This restaurant raised me better than my own family,

and it's so heartbreaking

to see that not a single ounce of its spirit

is left in this whole establishment.

In closing, your waitress today

was rude and entitled as fuck.

And just please bring back hamburgers

to the people of Los Angeles,

'cause we hungry out here.

- Two avo ts with evoo. - Oh!

And for you, my friend...

- On god? - Enjoy.

$14.75 for a piece of bread?

Nope. One star. Negative stars.

Excuse me, miss. This is way too expensive.

I'm sorry. We can't return it.

Cool. Well, we're leaving.

Okay, cool. Then I'll call the cops.

Okay, listen, hon.

You need to just go ahead and cancel my order,

or there will be consequences.

Look, buddy,

if you're gonna act like a thug,

then you really don't belong in this place.

Okay.

I write

bad reviews about real shit.

None of that, "oh, the food was great,

just wish Veronica smiled,"

or, "please greet your customers, thank you."

No, I'm coming in and putting down

that your dry-ass toast

should not cost $15.

In this economy?

Do you know what I can buy with $15?

I could use $1.75 for the red line to union station,

$2.75 for the silver streak,

get off at downtown pomona,

lyft home for $6.89,

drop two cents changing my ripped jeans

at the front porch,

climb into my nightclothes, flop in my bed,

open up my laptop, log on to yelp,

and write how fucking ridiculous these prices are!

$15 will get me a new outfit

from the four-star veteran thrift store down the street.

I can make chicken Alfredo for dinner for around $14.70.

Purchase shampoo, conditioner, and a leave-in

from Marshall's at around $13.40.

But everything under would have to fit into my wallet

lined with crow color limitations,

my hood budget, between the gap of the classes.

Equate the spare change I've saved for one-time fulfillments

in these late nights, written with opinions,

is how I pull down your fucking evoo to a one star,

find my voice in the sound of my keyboard.

How I march with my fingertips when it's past my curfew,

how I get back at the man, the men,

somehow, the pilgrims.

By clicking in disapproval with my right hand,

furiously typing with my left,

knowing that a "fuck you" will save someone $15.

Whew. Damn.

Now, can you go ahead

and just cancel my order, please?

No.

And we can pay a service

to get rid of your stupid review.

So sit down or leave, but you are paying.

Okay.

Oh, no, he's choking.

What are you doing?

Oh, my god, he's choking.

- I think he's choking. - Somebody help him.

It is okay.

- No, it's not okay. - I think it's the toast.

He's dying.

Okay, you can stop now.

Okay, you can stop now.

Do you know what time it is? It's time to shine.

Got a bottle of golden skin for 6.99.

Excuse me.

You need some sunblock? Look what I got.

Shit, school's out, so don't stop the summer vibes.

Hey, cute couple, squirt, squirt.

You guys need a water gun?

What the fuck, man? Can you not?

It's summertime, man.

Yeah, yeah, get a real job, asshole.

I have four of them, actually.

You guys want to hear a poem?

- Fuck no. - Just one poem?

I got a poem for y'all.

Have a nice day.

You're completely ignoring the precedent

that Davis set for Spears' prison abolitionist praxis.

- Whoa, Spears like Britney? - Yeah, Spears like Britney.

What other Spears is there?

She doesn't have praxis.

Britney's basically, like, all rhetoric.

You know, I'm sure she could learn a thing or two from kesha

about modeling direct action.

Kesha is the textbook definition of capitalist.

- What? - But Britney,

"work, bitch" is a satirical masterpiece.

It's an anthem of workers' rights, Marco.

Great, let's save that for the podcast.

- I will. - Yo, check this out.

Yo, speaking of podcast.

Hey, come on, check this out. Everybody, come on.

My boy rah about to spit for y'all.

Are you guys ready to see the future of the rap industry

right here on this street right now?

Check this out. It's my boy rah.

Rah, show them what they're here for.